


Keep A Place For Me

by orphan_account



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/F, also i guess it works as a one shot, i have no intentions of finishing this story, i wrote this last april and i just know i'll never be able to finish it so might as well!, i'm just posting this so i can get rid of the draft tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 10:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20505842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: the working title was "divorced wives au." take that as you will.





	Keep A Place For Me

**Author's Note:**

> read the tags

The clock read 2:38 a.m., when they were finally done. It had been a long day.

Becky inhaled deeply, the smell of sweat and lavender and something else that simply screamed  _ woman _ hitting her nostrils. She rolled to her back, and took a few more deep breaths. Her eyes were closed, but she could hear a persistent buzzing sound.

"Can you take care of that," she muttered, opening her eyes just a bit. It was not a request.

Beside her, Charlotte was still trembling, her eyes squeezed shut, her brows furrowed. Her skin was glistening; her hair a mess of blonde curls on the pillow. Her chest was heaving, and Becky couldn't help it: she reached out to squeeze one perfectly round breast, and then tugged on the still-pebbled nipple. Charlotte just whimpered in response.

Between the blonde's thighs, the Hitachi magic wand was still vibrating and buzzing. Becky had wielded it like a weapon for the past few hours, bringing Charlotte to the brink then backing off, alternating it with her fingers and tongue, using it on the incredibly sensitive insides of her thighs. Finally, when Charlotte was in tears and begging, her voice hoarse from moaning, Becky had finally relented.

_ "All right then, love," she rasped out, "Come for me."  _

Now, a few minutes removed from a sensational orgasm that had her gushing on Becky's sheets, Charlotte could only try and catch her breath. She felt, more than saw, that Becky had moved, that she had stood up from the wreckage that was her bed. When some feeling returned in her arms, she reached down to grab the wand and switch it off.

Charlotte cracked her eyes open, and saw that Becky was indeed on her feet. Still naked, the redhead took a few steps toward her kitchen, and yanked open a cabinet. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach a bottle of whiskey on the high shelf; Charlotte had to keep herself from making a joke about Becky's height.

She observed as the woman poured the whiskey into a glass. Charlotte debated asking for a glass of her own, but decided against it; she had to drive back to her place, and she needed a clear head. As it stands, she still has to shake off the effects of the long hours of sex. 

They were quiet as Becky drank. Charlotte remained sprawled on the bed, her thighs spread. Through the dim light of her bedside lamp, Becky could see how wet Charlotte still was, how her pussy glistened with her own slickness. Her breasts bore plenty of marks; Becky had not been shy about expressing how much she appreciated them. Even now, minutes later, Charlotte could still feel how Becky sucked a hickey on her right breast, then immediately did the same to her left "so it wouldn't feel left out." She had laughed, then, before wailing when Becky plunged a finger inside her.

The sound of glass hitting granite shook Charlotte out of her thoughts. Becky was done with her drink, and now she was sauntering back to bed, completely unfazed with her own nudity. When she flopped back into the soft mattress, Charlotte wondered what would come next -- would it be different, this time around? Or the same as the first, second, third times that this had happened?

When would it change? Why wouldn't it change? Why wouldn't  _ they _ change?

Why wouldn't  _ she _ change?

Charlotte closes her eyes again. Her hands grasp the bed covers; they smell of her now, she knows, and for a few seconds she wonders if Becky will change them immediately, or if she will immerse herself in the scent, as that will be all that is left of Charlotte in her place, for at least one more week. 

Becky sighs. She wants another drink, but she's trying to make changes and one of those is to limit her alcohol intake to one glass per day. She could have gotten one after dinner, but she is well aware of what was going to happen between her and Charlotte that night, and planned accordingly.

"So," Becky speaks up, finally breaking the silence that threatened to go from awkward to suffocating. "Same time next week, then?"

*

The clock read 6:15 a.m.; her alarm was set for 6:30. Becky had already been awake for 10 minutes. It was a Friday, and Fridays were always difficult. She was already dreading everything that was going to happen.

For a moment, she wonders why she always wakes up before her alarm goes off, then dismisses the thought as unimportant. Her brain changes tack -- she wonders if she can flake off, this time. If she can call ahead and say that she isn't available, that an emergency has come up, that she was needed at work.

She wonders if she can miss one appointment. Just once. Just today.

Yet even as she wondered, Becky already knew that there was no way she was going to miss this appointment. She had been having the same internal debate for weeks -- no, make that months now, and yet she always ended up dragging her feet and going, no matter what. She went, without fail. That never changed.

Her alarm finally rang. She let out of a low groan, annoyed at the shrillness of the sound, before shutting it off. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Becky swung her legs from the bed and stood up. She chanced a look at herself in the mirror, and could only sigh at the dark circles under her eyes. She'll have to do something about that before she goes to their appointment.

Can't go there looking anything less than her best.

*

The clock read 6:15 a.m. Charlotte was already eating breakfast -- her usual meal composed of two pieces of lightly buttered toast, a bowl of cornflakes, and a glass of orange juice. It was always the same. No coffee for her today; she wants her heartbeat to be as stable as possible for what was to come.

She checks her tablet for her schedule for that day, and sighs as she saw the note for the appointment. It was always set for 4:00 p.m. on a Friday -- why did she bother to check? It wasn't as though they ever changed the time, or the place. 

Charlotte chews on her toast, and for a moment she thinks of skipping the appointment. She could very easily do that, she knows: realistically, what does it do? They have been doing this sham of a routine for weeks -- no, make that months now. And yet, nothing has changed. At this point, it is unlikely anything ever will.

She gazes at the note, and her right pointer finger hovers it for a few seconds. She grits her teeth, then puts the tablet down with a loud clatter. She blows out a breath. Charlotte knows that even if she does do it -- if she presses that button on her tablet to cancel it -- at the end of the day she will still show up to that damned appointment, as reluctant as she may be.

She drains her orange juice, then stands up. She has a schedule to keep today, and she cannot afford to be late.

*

The clock read 11:00 a.m. Becky had just wrapped up her first radio show of the day; she has another scheduled at 1:00 p.m. But in the meantime, she has the opportunity to eat an early lunch, and she grabs it.

Becky loves her job, and she's good at it. She's a host at a local radio station, with her own shows in the morning and in the afternoon. She's quite well-known about town, and has built a bit of a following. Thanks to social media, fans recognize not just her unique, raspy voice, but they can identify her by how she looks, too. She's even gotten quite a few requests for pictures, thanks very much.

Becky also moonlights as bartender from time to time, and it's another thing that she's good at. She has a way of connecting with people, of making them laugh, even as she serves them drinks meant to loosen their tongues and inhibitions. It's also a relatively easy way for her to earn extra money, and she's not one to turn down those opportunities.

Right now, however, she's not thinking about her radio show, or any future bartending gigs. Right now, Becky's mind is solely focused on her appointment for that afternoon. She'll have to rush -- her show ends at 3:00 p.m., and her appointment is all the way to the other side of the city. She hopes that traffic won't be too bad, otherwise she might be late. If she's late, she knows she'll catch hell from - 

"You okay, Becks?"

Her head snaps up, and she sees her station manager, Finn Balor, enter the pantry with his usual lunch meal -- a salad. Becky shakes herself from her thoughts; she realizes she's barely touched her food.

"Yeah," she murmurs, then clears her throat. "Yeah, I'm fine, Finn," she tells her old friend. "Just… it's a Friday, so I'm a little on the edge."

Finn nods knowingly. "You ever think about just… cancelling your appointment?" he asks, his voice taking on a delicate tone.

Becky laughs, a brittle sound. She spears a piece of penne pasta with her fork, and chews on it. The burst of flavor from the pesto distracts her a little, but not enough. She swallows, then shifts her gaze to Finn. "I spent 15 minutes this morning weighing the pros and cons of not showing up," she admits. "But… "

"But you're gonna show up, right?" Finn says. Again, his tone was knowing. It's almost like they've had this conversation before.

Becky swallows another mouthful of penne. She takes a small sip of her drink. She smiles at Finn, sad and brittle and uncertain. "You know it, Finn," she murmurs, finally. "You know it."

*

The clock read 1:00 p.m. What remained of her lunch -- a salad and a turkey sandwich -- was left forgotten on the right side of her desk. Charlotte was frozen, staring at her computer, wondering if she should succumb to temptation this time.

She could try to distract herself from making this decision -- a very unimportant decision, in the grand scheme of things. She had cases to study, she had clients to meet. Charlotte was a senior partner in one of the biggest law firms in the city, and she had plenty of responsibilities to take care of. The idea that she would spend 10 whole minutes debating whether or not to tune in to a radio show was irrational.

And yet… 

It wasn't like they could  _ track _ her Spotify habits, right? She can very easily tune in to the station and listen, no one would care, no one would even know.

Except  _ Charlotte _ would know. She would know that for another week, she couldn't help herself. She couldn't help but listen to the show, knowing that every minute would cause her already fragile heart to crack further, that every song played would be a message, that every word spoken was a question she had to ponder.

Her hand was trembling. She took a deep breath to try and calm herself -- this shouldn't get her on edge, dammit. It was a simple act of pressing a button, and it was one that she had struggled with for weeks -- no, months now. It was as if her life was a game of Snakes and Ladders, and every time she climbed, she ended up getting bitten instead and tumbling down, all the way to the very start.

She wondered when she'd get a break. When would she get to the top, without being snake-bitten? 

Another deep breath. A click. Spotify opens. Another click.

"... back like we never left, you're still listening to the one, the only, The Man of the hour and all the hours…"

*

The clock read 3:55 p.m.

Charlotte gets out of her car -- a sleek Audi that she bought when she was named senior partner in her law firm. She rolls her eyes as she realizes that Becky was late, as usual. What else did she expect?

The roar of a motorcycle drew another eyeroll out of Charlotte. Of course, Becky had to make an entrance.

She watched, as subtly as possible, as her ex-wife parked the Ducati Monster 1200, took off her helmet, then shook her wild mane of ginger hair free. She watched as Becky leapt off the bike; it was one of the few instances in her life that Becky did anything with grace. She watched as Becky hooked her helmet to one of the handles, then brushed off her leather jacket of any invisible specks it had collected on the ride over.

When Becky lifted her gaze to meet hers, Charlotte stared back. 

Becky grinned -- or, more accurately, she smirked. It was almost as if she knew, as if she was aware that Charlotte had once again been unable to help herself, that she had spent the better part of her afternoon listening to Becky tell corny jokes on her radio show, while at the same time managing to spout heartfelt analysis of the songs she played.

It was almost as if Becky knew that Charlotte tried to  _ not _ be there that day, and still showed up. Showed up  _ on time _ , even. 

Charlotte stared back at her ex-wife for five more seconds, then rolled her eyes. 

"We're gonna be late," she said, the first words she's spoken to Becky in a week. "Come on."

This time, it was Becky who rolled her eyes. "You're always in such a hurry to get here," she observed. "It's as if you expect anything to change."

It wasn't a new sentiment or anything. Becky had made similar statements before. But for some reason, her words cut Charlotte especially deep that day -- they  _ hurt _ , in ways that Becky's words haven't hurt her in a while. She gripped her hand bag tighter, and offered a brusque response.

"I don't expect anything to change," she ground out. "I just want to get this over with."

At that, Becky smirked again. "Can't wait for what comes after, eh, Charlotte?"

The sound of her name from her ex-wife's mouth was like a punch in the gut. That Becky was smirking as though she  _ knew  _ what Charlotte wanted only made the pain worse. The words that dripped from her lips -- in that accent that Becky never lost, no matter how long she'd been in the United States -- swirled around Charlotte's head and threw her for a spin.

"Let's just go in, please," she finally answered, her voice soft and quiet. 

Becky looked mullish for a second, as if disappointed that their banter ended before it could really begin. But to Charlotte's eternal relief, she relented, and nodded. "Come on, then," she said.

Even after all this time, they were still in synch. Together, they walked to the therapist's office. Becky held the door open for Charlotte, just as she's done time and again. Charlotte went up to talk to the receptionist, who guided them through their usual waiting room. They knew the drill. They knew what was coming -- an hour and a half of stilted, awkward conversation as they tried to understand exactly why and how everything between them had fallen apart, why and how a relationship that seemed destined to last had gone up in flames after just a few short years.

An hour and a half of trying to pass the blame onto each other, as if they didn't know that both of them made mistakes, that both of them were at fault. An hour and a half of trying to understand why they still couldn't stay away from each other -- why neither of them could move on. An hour and a half wherein both of them denied what they both still knew -- that they still bore the same fire for each other, and it burned and grew hotter with every week that passed, no matter how much they tried to put it out.

An hour and a half of them realizing that as bright as that fire burned, nothing between them had changed. They didn't know if things ever will. They have been doing this exact same routine every week for the past four months, since the first time they ran into each other at an event and fell to bed together as if nothing had changed, as if they didn't go through a bitter divorce, as if they weren't still hurting from all the words they said to each other in the process.

Every week, for the past four months. 

There was no end in sight.

**Author's Note:**

> i will not be taking any questions


End file.
